ankle on rocks, get stuck in the mud, and then you’re fucked.’
‘Josh—’
‘In Skye, no one can hear you scream: half the houses along the shore are empty. Holiday homes. In winter the tide will come in, cold and lethal: you’d drown.’
‘Josh! I know all this. It’s my island! Practically lived here as a boy.’
‘But you nearly always came in summer, no? In winter, days are five hours long, or less. Mate. Think about it. Even with a boat, Torran can be very tricky in winter. You can still be stranded for days.’
‘All right. Aye. I know winters are tough. I know it won’t be easy. But I don’t care.’
Josh laughed. ‘Sure. I get it. I think.’
Angus pressed on: ‘So, you mentioned, on the phone, the tides. This afternoon?’
Josh glanced at the receding sea, then back at Angus. ‘I emailed you a link earlier: official Mallaig tide tables, with all the details.’
‘Haven’t had a chance to check: on the go since breakfast.’
Josh nodded. He was training his gaze, thoughtfully, on the mudflats and the seaweed, drying in the feeble sun. ‘OK. Well, low-tide today is four p.m. You’ve got an hour either side of that, max. So we have half an hour to kill; till about three.’
Another silence descended between them, momentarily. Angus knew what came next. Gently, his friend enquired: ‘… how’s Kirstie?’
Of course. This is what you have to ask. How’s Kirstie? How is Kirstie?
What should he say?
He wanted to tell the truth. Maybe six months ago Kirstie had begun behaving very peculiarly. Something truly strange and disturbing had happened to his surviving daughter: to her persona. Things got so bad Angus nearly went to a doctor: and then, at the last moment, Angus had found a remedy. Of sorts.
But Angus was unable to tell anyone, not even Josh. Especially not Josh, because Josh would tell Molly, his wife, and Molly and Sarah were fairly intimate. And Sarah could not be allowed to know about this; she must not be told, ever. He simply didn’t trust her with this. He hadn’t trusted her, for so many months, in so many ways.
So it had to be lies. Even with Josh.
‘Kirstie’s good. Given the situation.’
‘OK. And Sarah? Is she doing, y’know, all right now? Doing better?’
Another inevitable question.
‘Yes. She’s fine. We’re all fine. Really looking forward to moving.’ Angus spoke as calmly as he could. ‘Kirstie wants to see a mermaid. Or a seal. A seal would probably do.’
‘Hah.’
‘Anyway. We’ve got time to kill? Shall we have a coffee?’
‘Uh-huh. You’ll notice a few changes in here,’ Josh said, as he pushed the creaking door of the pub.
He wasn’t wrong. As they stepped inside the Selkie, Angus gazed around: surprised.
The old, stained, cosy, herring-fisherman’s pub was transformed. The piped pop music was replaced with piped modern folk – bodhrans and fiddles. The muddy carpeted floor had evolved into expensive grey slates.
At the other end of the bar a chalked sign advertised ‘squab lobster’; and in between the boxes of leaflets from local theatres, and stacks of pamphlets on sea-eagle spotting, a chubby teenage girl stood behind the beer-pumps, toying sullenly with her nose-ring – and obviously resenting the fact she had to take Josh’s order for coffees.
The metamorphosis was impressive, but not exceptional. This was yet another boutique hotel and gastropub, aiming itself at rich tourists seeking the Highlands and Islands experience. It was no longer the scruffy, vinegar-scented local boozer of two decades back.
Though, as it was mid-November, and a weekday afternoon, locals were the only clients to service, right now.
‘Yes, both with milk, thanks, Jenny.’
Angus glanced across to the corner. Five men, of varying ages and virtually identical crew-neck jumpers, sat at a large round wooden table. The pub was otherwise deserted. The men were silent as they squinted back at Angus over their pints.
Then they turned to
‘Josh—’
‘In Skye, no one can hear you scream: half the houses along the shore are empty. Holiday homes. In winter the tide will come in, cold and lethal: you’d drown.’
‘Josh! I know all this. It’s my island! Practically lived here as a boy.’
‘But you nearly always came in summer, no? In winter, days are five hours long, or less. Mate. Think about it. Even with a boat, Torran can be very tricky in winter. You can still be stranded for days.’
‘All right. Aye. I know winters are tough. I know it won’t be easy. But I don’t care.’
Josh laughed. ‘Sure. I get it. I think.’
Angus pressed on: ‘So, you mentioned, on the phone, the tides. This afternoon?’
Josh glanced at the receding sea, then back at Angus. ‘I emailed you a link earlier: official Mallaig tide tables, with all the details.’
‘Haven’t had a chance to check: on the go since breakfast.’
Josh nodded. He was training his gaze, thoughtfully, on the mudflats and the seaweed, drying in the feeble sun. ‘OK. Well, low-tide today is four p.m. You’ve got an hour either side of that, max. So we have half an hour to kill; till about three.’
Another silence descended between them, momentarily. Angus knew what came next. Gently, his friend enquired: ‘… how’s Kirstie?’
Of course. This is what you have to ask. How’s Kirstie? How is Kirstie?
What should he say?
He wanted to tell the truth. Maybe six months ago Kirstie had begun behaving very peculiarly. Something truly strange and disturbing had happened to his surviving daughter: to her persona. Things got so bad Angus nearly went to a doctor: and then, at the last moment, Angus had found a remedy. Of sorts.
But Angus was unable to tell anyone, not even Josh. Especially not Josh, because Josh would tell Molly, his wife, and Molly and Sarah were fairly intimate. And Sarah could not be allowed to know about this; she must not be told, ever. He simply didn’t trust her with this. He hadn’t trusted her, for so many months, in so many ways.
So it had to be lies. Even with Josh.
‘Kirstie’s good. Given the situation.’
‘OK. And Sarah? Is she doing, y’know, all right now? Doing better?’
Another inevitable question.
‘Yes. She’s fine. We’re all fine. Really looking forward to moving.’ Angus spoke as calmly as he could. ‘Kirstie wants to see a mermaid. Or a seal. A seal would probably do.’
‘Hah.’
‘Anyway. We’ve got time to kill? Shall we have a coffee?’
‘Uh-huh. You’ll notice a few changes in here,’ Josh said, as he pushed the creaking door of the pub.
He wasn’t wrong. As they stepped inside the Selkie, Angus gazed around: surprised.
The old, stained, cosy, herring-fisherman’s pub was transformed. The piped pop music was replaced with piped modern folk – bodhrans and fiddles. The muddy carpeted floor had evolved into expensive grey slates.
At the other end of the bar a chalked sign advertised ‘squab lobster’; and in between the boxes of leaflets from local theatres, and stacks of pamphlets on sea-eagle spotting, a chubby teenage girl stood behind the beer-pumps, toying sullenly with her nose-ring – and obviously resenting the fact she had to take Josh’s order for coffees.
The metamorphosis was impressive, but not exceptional. This was yet another boutique hotel and gastropub, aiming itself at rich tourists seeking the Highlands and Islands experience. It was no longer the scruffy, vinegar-scented local boozer of two decades back.
Though, as it was mid-November, and a weekday afternoon, locals were the only clients to service, right now.
‘Yes, both with milk, thanks, Jenny.’
Angus glanced across to the corner. Five men, of varying ages and virtually identical crew-neck jumpers, sat at a large round wooden table. The pub was otherwise deserted. The men were silent as they squinted back at Angus over their pints.
Then they turned to
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